


Collection Night

by Nosferatuwu



Category: Homestuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23453683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nosferatuwu/pseuds/Nosferatuwu
Summary: Araqat muses to himself about an Earthan postcard he found in the document collection tray at his office.
Kudos: 1





	Collection Night

**Author's Note:**

> This was just a short prompt I did for a writing prompt meme on Tumblr. If you want more content on my fantrolls you can find me on there at hambinhotel.tumblr.com

Under the static hum of cheap ultraviolet lights sat a lone Alternian troll. The goldblood was plastered on the leather seat, elbows resting on the metallic slab that jutted out of the wall to act as a table. It was a solitary retreat, with staff replaced by machines that dispensed the eatery’s menu items, making the few patrons that entered scavenge for their meals, and the gold blood sat hunched over his loot. 

He tapped out a simple rhythm with his foot, chewed through the slop on his tray with a learned ease, the taste fanning out over his tongue now secondary to the thoughts swirling in his mind. Araqat liked to think like this, alone in the diner. There was a tranquility, even with the cracked linoleum floors and the dirty, murky windows, there was just something about this place that  _ clicked _ for Ara; that felt  _ right _ . It was his conference diner, and he was currently consumed by the thoughts of a small, Earthen postcard that had turned up in the document collection tray at Arcadia’s back room tonight. It’s edges were frayed, the card yellowed, was some Earthan antique that would probably fetch a pretty penny to the right collector if Araqat  _ really _ cared enough to find one, though he also knew that wasn’t why he’d received it.

He reached into his back pocket, slid the card out and placed it back on the table, so consumed by the mundane Earth object he almost missed the bell chime behind him, the clack of boots as they made their way to the back of the space.

What he definitely  _ didn’t  _ miss though, was that  _ voice _ .

“Long time, no see, Double Nubs-”

_ Fuck. _

“-Wouldn’t have recognised ya, if it weren’t for those teeny horns ya got.” Araqat didn’t bother to look up, didn’t need to, as he heard the newcomer slide into the booth across from him with a calculated leisure. He already knew exactly who this was, exactly the kind of troll that would coin a nickname like ‘Double Nubs’ and remember it sweeps later.

“You’re still as short as I remember.” Ara looked up at that point, sat back and tossed his fork onto the tray. She looked like she hadn’t aged a day, though he guessed that was blue bloods for you, probably wasn’t due for another moult for a long time. Her style had changed a bit, a button up white shirt tied at the waist to be a crop top, shorts that ended at the top of her thighs, and Araqat had seen before she sat down that she decided she only needed to wear  _ one  _ thigh high stocking and call it fashion.

“Still a bottle-blonde, though,” he looked up at her hair, thick and curly and sat in two neat buns atop her head behind her horns, exactly as he remembered it.

“Ya say that like any troll with blonde hair ain’t from a fuckin’ tube,” if he had any doubts this was Persit, her knack for talking like an upbeat cartoon character with a slight lisp while cursing like a threshicutioner was the giveaway. Araqat just shrugged,

“Not me who gets shitty about it.”

“I’ve missed ya hopping on ya brat bullshit,” Persit mused, reaching out a well manicured hand, nails painted cerulean to match the blood of her caste, to snap up the postcard on the table, “And so’s  _ them _ ,” she winked with a smug grin, fangs peeking out.

Yes, the postcard. It had long faded, but the image on the front was of what the Earth humans called a diseased dog - a rabid one, at that. The foam dripped from its mouth as it stared up from the card, far too thin and hobbled over - morbid and decrepit, a  _ warning _ . Ara knew of their fondness for the animal, had heard them mention their love for an author from a long gone Earth country called the States, a book he’d written about a rabid dog in a small colony - or, as the humans called it: a town.

“Pretty bold havin’ human contraband out in the open like this, huh?” Persit tilted her head, held the card between two fingers with an elegant ease.

“Tell Sabine I’m still sayin’ nah.” Ara ignored Persit’s smug query, had little interest in banter. If he wanted it, he would have called, maybe sent a drunk pester. He had yet to do so in 3 sweeps, and he knew Persit wasn’t that dipshit fucking stupid to not pick up on the hint.

“Look at  _ you _ , ya filled out some, got pimped out with some new gear, ditched that shitty wheelchair,” she looked up at his hair, “found a horrible hair stylist, even for the low-districts,” she clicked a tongue behind her teeth, “and ya still don’t know shit about debts.”

There was a shift in the air, and the blue blood had taken to resting her chin in her hand and tapping the postcard absently on the table with the other, eyes narrowed at the gold. A silent warning - he was stepping on fragile ground. Araqat knew damn well about debts, knew he couldn’t exactly rip the rigging out of his spine and hand it back to Sabine with a smile and a  _ ‘we can chalk this up to a free trial, yeah?’  _ Sabine worked in favours, something Araqat realised a little too late, when he was already ass deep in cyber enhancements and enough caegars that his head spun at the thought of what to spend them on first.

It wasn’t a matter of  _ if _ Ara was in debt, it was a matter of  _ when _ Sabine wanted to collect.

“I paid mine.”

But it didn’t mean Ara still wasn’t gonna try to weasel out of it.

Persit shuffled in the booth, crossing one knee over the other and pursing her lips.

“See Nubs,” she started, seeming none too pleased with the troll’s refusal, “you got that pretty little arcade over there ya been runnin’, and tell me, have ya been payin’ rent these past sweeps?”

Araqat knew he should have burned the shit down as soon as he had broken free, but there were  _ memories,  _ call it stupid nostalgia, in that building and he could just never find it in himself to let go, had a feeling that if it wasn’t the  _ arcade _ he was being dragged back for it was gonna be something  _ else _ , so he may as well keep it. He knew this was futile, knew that Persit would drag him back kicking and screaming if she had to, but Araqat was as stubborn as he was reluctant - something Persit seemed to have remembered, judging by how she was entertaining these refusals instead of going straight to force.

There was a silence that settled over the diner, broken only by Persit herself.

“Look,” she seemed to soften a bit, didn’t seem interested in the back and forth of who owes what when both parties clearly knew the answer, “you’re the best netrunner out. No one in the game has gotten even  _ close _ to the shit you’ve pulled off. We need ya. Big score comin’ up and ‘Been’s pullin’ out all the stops for it.”

“And that includes yankin’ my ass outta ‘storage,’ huh?”

“Yup. Ya been on stand by too long, gettin’ dusty and shit.” She seemed more upbeat, knew that Araqat was starting to cave - he had no real choice  _ but _ to cave, shit was inevitable. But there was still that one thread of resistance, that one thread that tugged and squirmed and made Araqat huff in his chair, looking out towards the window caked in grime and age.

“You can tell ‘em to eat shit.” Was his reply

“You know I’m not gonna tell ‘em that.”

They were at an impasse, then, it seemed. Araqat sure as fuck had enjoyed his time out of the lifestyle of killing and spending, and Sabine seemed to sure as fuck enjoy Araqat’s time  _ in  _ the lifestyle of killing and spending. 

He scowled down at the post card, the analogue antique treated with the same respect a tax notice would be. He supposed the two were similar enough, both were an overhead requesting - no,  _ demanding _ \- his time and money.

“Fuck you. Fine.”


End file.
